Artesans of Albia: 01 - King's Envoy (37 page)

“Bulldog,” said Sullyan softly, “do you have any firewater with you?” He nodded carefully. “Good.” She turned to Robin and Taran. “Robin, increase the flow of metaforce until he sleeps. Just remember to keep an eye on his heart. Once he is unconscious, I will draw out the bolt. Taran, have you ever seen Rienne cauterize a wound?”

Taran grimaced, the memory of burned flesh in his nostrils. “Once or twice.”

“As I draw out the bolt, follow through the wound with metaforce. It will have the same cauterizing effect as fire. We can afford no possibility of infection—it could be fatal in this realm.”

She stepped to Bull’s horse and rummaged in the saddlebag, returning with a small brown bottle. She offered it wordlessly to Bull. He took a long pull before giving it back. She settled in behind him, supporting his body with hers.

“Go ahead, Robin.”

Taran could feel the Captain gradually increasing the flow of metaforce. Eventually, it put the big man to sleep. “Keep him out, but not too deep,” the Major warned.

She raised the liquor bottle and poured a generous stream of firewater over the wound. Then she glanced up at Taran. “Ready?”

He nodded, concentrating his mind on the end of the bolt.

Using exquisitely fine control, Sullyan used her power to push the embedded metal rod. As it moved slowly, she was able to grasp it in her fingers and help the process along. Bull moaned faintly as the bolt moved and she stopped, looking over at Robin. After a few seconds, he nodded and she continued. This time, the big man was silent and she was able to remove the bolt. Taran carefully guided power through the hole, disgusted by the sound and smell of searing flesh. No more blood was lost, however, so it seemed his work was effective.

Sullyan looked satisfied as she inspected the wound. She cleaned the blood with a cloth soaked in firewater. Finally, she made a bandage and sling from the cloth and bound the shoulder. Then she eased from behind Bull and laid him down gently, placing her hand on his brow to check his temperature.

“Let him sleep,” she said, and they stepped away to leave him in peace.

The Major set about making a fire so they could have fellan while they rested. They kept up the shield while waiting for Bull to rouse, taking turns to hold it in place. Taran was amazed when he felt no strain from the effort—having so much power to call on, even without Bull’s contribution, made all the difference.

Sullyan scanned the area more than once, finding no trace of their attackers. She found it strange. “Things are not as they should be in this realm, either,” she said, sipping her fellan. “The raiders must be the reason for the land being abandoned. I expect we will find large numbers of refugees have gone to the mansion. Although I cannot imagine why Marik has sent no troops to drive off the raiders.”

Soon, Bull began to stir. Sullyan kneeled beside him. Taran saw him open his eyes and Sullyan smiled at him.

“How is it now?”

He grimaced. “Could be worse.”

“You are very lucky, my friend. Can you sit up?”

Gently, she helped him sit, studying his still-gray face. “You need more help,” she decided.

He frowned. “I’ll be alright, Major.”

She wagged a finger at him. “No heroics. I will use the Powersink.”

He acquiesced and she laid her hand lightly on his wounded shoulder. Her pupils expanded, turning her golden eyes black. Taran was fascinated by this physical sign of her power; he had never seen anything like it and there was no mention of such things in his father’s notes.

He could feel her drawing power from their pooled source and watched as she channeled it around Bull’s wound. Some color returned to his pale face and the tiny lines of pain faded. Sullyan removed her hand and stood, helping Bull rise. She steadied him a moment, watching his eyes. After a few seconds, he nodded and she released his arm. He walked slowly to his horse and drew a fresh shirt from his pack. Robin helped him into it and resettled the sling.

“We are only a couple of hours from the mansion,” said the Major, “so I suggest we change into dress uniform here. I can detect no raiders nearby but we will keep the shield intact. Bull, take what you need when you need it, I want you as fit as possible.”

He nodded.

They changed into dress uniform, the Major completely unselfconscious beside the men. Bull and Robin took no notice, well used to Sullyan’s ways, but as she stripped off her leathers, Taran had to turn away to hide his flaming face. Robin helped Bull finish his dressing and then boosted him into the saddle.

They emerged cautiously from their campsite and encountered no one. The Major rode in the lead, her russet-brown uniform lending her an even greater air of authority. Her double-thunderflash rank insignia and battle honors glinted gold on her breast in the sun.

After a couple of hours, during which Taran felt Bull draw healing power more than once, they came to the last hill. The horses cantered easily up it. From its crest, they looked over a large stretch of rolling grassland.

Perched on a small mound rising out of the terrain a few miles away was a building. Taran could see it wasn’t large, but it was surrounded by a sea of temporary huts, tents and shanties, all manner of crude dwellings, hastily erected and looking ill cared for. This was what Sullyan had expected to see, he thought, this was where the land’s inhabitants had run to, and it confirmed her suspicion of widespread unrest.

Sitting motionlessly, she stared down at this motley sea of life. Even from this distance, Taran could hear and smell the effects of so many people camped so close together.

“What has made them gather so tightly?” she mused, almost too low for him to hear. “These lands have been ruled by Marik’s family for generations. His standard still flies above the mansion, so why are his people so fearful?”

None of them had answers. They nudged their mounts down the slope.

As they neared the mansion, their senses were assailed by all manner of sights, sounds and smells. Taran had to block some of the worst and was aware of the others doing the same. They entered the outskirts of the shanty town, following the path that led inexorably to the mansion gates. The horses stepped fastidiously over piles of dung and refuse, avoiding certain puddles of liquid that, by their color, were not water.

Some of the peasants gave the four riders furtive glances. Many hid from sight. Still others emerged from their huts to see who was riding so boldly through their midst. Some wore hostile, hate-filled expressions.

Sullyan rode calmly, with no outward expression, but Taran could see her keeping a wary eye on her surroundings. It would not do, he thought, to be caught unawares here.

They safely reached the entrance to the mansion courtyard, where the huge wooden gates were firmly closed. There was a small sally port to the right of the gates behind two guards holding crossed halberds.

Sullyan drew rein beside them and saluted from Mandias’ back.

“I send greetings to Count Marik,” she said formally. “Please inform him that Ambassador Sullyan has arrived, as arranged, to see him.”

The guards did not respond and Taran thought there would be trouble. However, before anyone could speak again, the sally port opened and a man in elaborate court dress emerged. His maroon-edged black mantle flared around him as he strode over to Sullyan’s horse, and she dismounted, stretching out her hand.

He took it, raising it to his lips. “Welcome, Ambassador, it is a pleasure as always. We’ve been expecting you. Will you come inside?”

Taran studied the Andaryan with interest, wondering if this was the Count. He was certainly a minor noble, judging by the quality of his attire. Typical of the race, his eyes were slit-pupiled like a cat’s, and they were pale gray. Taran knew that Andaryans generally had very pale irises and had heard that even an all-white eye was not unusual. It made their faces strange and their expressions hard to read, he thought, remembering the noble he’d killed. He certainly wouldn’t care to play cards with one.

The Andaryan had swarthy skin, dark and neat hair, and an ingratiating smile. Taran instinctively distrusted him but Sullyan greeted him cordially.

“Well met, Lord Nazir. There have been some changes since last I was here.” She indicated the dirty cluster of huts with a wave of her hand.

He sniffed, glancing disdainfully at the hovels huddling around the mansion like beggars around a fire. “There have been raiders abroad, Lady, and commoners are easily frightened. Pay them no mind. I bid you and your friends welcome to Count Marik’s home. Please enter and allow us to offer you accommodation and refreshment.”

He saw Bull and his pale eyes widened. “Your companion is wounded. Did you encounter the raiders? Does he need medical attention?”

“I thank you for your concern, my Lord,” said Sullyan, as the great gates creaked open and they passed inside. “He will be well with a little rest. Is Count Marik not here to greet us?”

Taran saw irritation cross Nazir’s face but his reply was calm.

“The Count is detained at present, Lady, and sends his sincere apologies. He is looking forward to speaking with you at the feast tonight.”

Taran heard Bull’s low groan and remembered what he’d said about Marik’s interminable feasts.

“What is the occasion, my Lord?” asked Sullyan as the noble snapped his fingers to summon grooms. Mandias laid back his ears at the man who took his bridle and Sullyan spent a few minutes reassuring the horse. The groom eyed him warily as he led Mandias away.

“The Count needs no excuse to hold a feast, Lady,” said Nazir, his smile not touching his pale eyes. “But I believe it is mainly in your honor.”

He led them across a large cobbled courtyard and into the mansion proper. Taran gazed at the cold and drafty entrance hall with interest.

“The Count is too gracious,” said Sullyan, and Taran was sure he caught a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

The noble didn’t seem to notice, however, and continued through the hall. It was poorly lit by huge, guttering tallow candles. They cast a greasy yellow light, causing shadows to sway over the faded tapestries covering the gray stone walls.

As they followed Nazir, their footfalls rang on the flag-stones. They passed several rooms in which Taran saw flickers of firelight and heard the muted hum of conversation. He also smelled the pleasant aroma of food and drink. A few of the mansion’s other occupants passed them, all glancing curiously at the Albians’ eyes and unfamiliar dress.

Nazir led the way up a narrow flight of twisting stairs and eventually halted in front of a door at the end of a short passageway. He flung it open and ushered them into a large and reasonably comfortable-looking room.

The candles here were brighter and there was a roaring fire in the grate, dispelling the season’s damp chill. Dark and heavy drapes of what had once been good quality cloth obscured what Taran assumed were tall windows, and worn but serviceable carpeting covered the floor. The room contained an enormous bed, two low couches, and several well-used easy chairs. Another door in the far wall led to what Taran thought would be a washroom.

“I hope this is satisfactory, Ambassador,” said Nazir, bowing low. “I believe you have occupied this suite before?”

“Indeed we have, my Lord. We will be very comfortable, I thank you.”

He inclined his head, saying, “I will send a servant with refreshment and water for washing. The feast starts in two hours. I look forward to seeing you there.” With a smile that showed his teeth, he departed.

Bull dumped his pack on the floor and sank gratefully into one of the chairs. Sullyan helped remove his jacket and shirt so she could inspect his wound. She undid the bandage and gently probed the outraged flesh. Bull winced but made no sound.